Exposure № 070: Floating Memories

This week, we’re featuring a new collaboration between photographer Naama Sarid, whose work we’ve featured in the past. Naama has been kind enough to share her work with some of our other contributors, and they have been writing and creating based on her wonderful photography.

Stay tuned this week for multiple daily posts. Each day, we’ll post a photo in the morning, and then several pieces inspired by it later in the day.

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Naama Sarid-Maleta’ is an architect. She began an intense career as a documentary and conceptual photographer in Madrid (2008) and has contributed to magazines and publications in Europe and Israel. She has participated in numerous exhibitions in Ukraine, Spain and Israel. Her sustained challenge as an artist is the desire to “build dreams” in visual codes. She had developed a scheme of work based on the interaction of enforcement procedures and the organizations of architecture and a conceptual result more expressionistic and plastic in its nature. Her husband is also an architect and photographer from Cuba, and they work as a team with multidisciplinary projections. Her other contributions to Snake-Oil Cure can be found here.

A Magic Forest in the Room

7:00 hours in a morning of blue lights and long red shadows;
are also the hours of silent magic without words just a song.
There is a thick forest of columns and in the memory: a roof of waters,
no secret corners; almost harmonious at every glance, in every planet.

On either side of her, stories drawn from ancient times come;

so old legends that no one remembers, even though everyone knows.

It is the “maker of mysteries“, a snowy face and kisses of sugar cotton;
is here and there, sitting at herself, dreaming of a new and happy world.

It is time for the Gods’ breakfast

here in the darker magic forest.
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This week, we’re featuring a new collaboration between photographer Naama Sarid, whose work we’ve featured in the past. Naama has been kind enough to share her work with some of our other contributors, and they have been writing and creating based on her wonderful photography. This piece is inspired by Exposure № 069:A Magic Forest in the Room. See Naama Sarid’s other Snake-Oil Cure contrubutions here.

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Conrado Sarid-Maleta’ is a Cuban photographer and painter. He left his home country six years ago, and has not returned. Most recently, he has lived and worked in Europe, and is now in Tel Aviv, Israel. He learned photography with the help of a great Cuban artist, later continuing alone and working very hard to increase day by day what he knew. Mainly, his works use the visual experience as a means to connect with ideas rather than with techniques or methodological processes. He prefers to be a storyteller rather than a perfectionist. His other contributions to Snake-Oil Cure can be found here.

Exposure № 069: A Magic Forest in the Room

This week, we’re featuring a new collaboration between photographer Naama Sarid, whose work we’ve featured in the past. Naama has been kind enough to share her work with some of our other contributors, and they have been writing and creating based on her wonderful photography.

Stay tuned this week for multiple daily posts. Each day, we’ll post a photo in the morning, and then several pieces inspired by it later in the day.

* * * * *

Naama Sarid-Maleta’ is an architect. She began an intense career as a documentary and conceptual photographer in Madrid (2008) and has contributed to magazines and publications in Europe and Israel. She has participated in numerous exhibitions in Ukraine, Spain and Israel. Her sustained challenge as an artist is the desire to “build dreams” in visual codes. She had developed a scheme of work based on the interaction of enforcement procedures and the organizations of architecture and a conceptual result more expressionistic and plastic in its nature. Her husband is also an architect and photographer from Cuba, and they work as a team with multidisciplinary projections. Her other contributions to Snake-Oil Cure can be found here.

The Girl in the Bubble

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his is what happens when the girl teleports for the first time: the nulltime bubble forms and expands fully around her. Then, darkness. An utter envelope of black surrounds her; the cold is so intense she feels like she had just been thrown out a hatch of a ship to the void instead of passing through an ten-dimensional window.

Hopefully, not for long. If the running protocols of the system are fully functional, then she will jump to her destination, and everything will be just fine.

But now she is curled upon herself and helpless in a bubble outside physical reality. She draws a deep breath and fights back the tears. It doesn’t matter how many times you experience this, she already knows it will never be easy. It’s not only her first time, but the very first time a human being is teleported.

Teleportation is impossible for objects in the macro scale. Only quantum particles can be successfully teleported.

The Calabi-Yau Manifold (from now on referred as CYM) is a topological structure composed of ten dimensions. Since the reality in which we live in is composed, as far as our senses can tell, of three dimensions, the other seven are “tucked in” or, as we shall say from now on, projected in other “planes” that do not register to our senses.

That does not mean, however, that they do not exist.

The only way to manipulate CYMs is to open bubbles and to wrap macrostructures with them. Then you can teleport virtually anything.

The smaller the bubble, the less energy you expend and the faster you go. This is why the girl travels in such a small space. She needs to get to where she’s going fast.

The girl can’t tell how much time has passed inside the bubble. It feels like a long time before she finally opens her eyes. The black-on-black of the initial moments seems to have acquired a lighter shade.

Nobody knows why this happens. One of the theories states that to traverse a manifold is to cross over membranes; a quite similar effect can be observed if you put several sheets of translucent paper between your eyes and a sun.

Other theory states that the manifold is like an origami which unfolds in at least ten directions, according to the original Calabi-Yau principle. And a paper can be folded several times.

No matter what the reality is behind the theory, there is a slight pale, ghostly luminescence when we are reaching a refuge. In her training, the girl was told this is a good sign: she will arrive soon.

She takes a deep breath and start going automatically through the routine drilled into her head: first, the integrity of her body. Apparently okay on the outside, no limbs missing, no time displacement syndrome of any sort affecting her insides or her perception – as far as she knows.

She tries to kneel, but even though the bubble seems very hard to her touch, she can barely move, and she’s afraid she will sort of puncture the nulltime envelope. But that means the bubble is holding as it should. When she gets back to normaltime, though, her training officer told her she could expect fire and brimstone oozing from every orifice.

But the girl in the bubble doesn’t think of it. She only breathes deeply. And she waits.

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This week, we’re featuring a new collaboration between photographer Naama Sarid, whose work we’ve featured in the past. Naama has been kind enough to share her work with some of our other contributors, and they have been writing and creating based on her wonderful photography. This piece is inspired by Exposure № 068: Butterfly. See Naama Sarid’s other Snake-Oil Cure contrubutions here.

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Fabio Fernandes is a writer based in São Paulo, Brazil. Also a journalist and translator, he is responsible for the Brazilian translations of several prominent SF novels including Neuromancer, Snow Crash, and A Clockwork Orange. His short stories have been published in Brazil, Portugal, Romania, England, and the USA, and in Ann and Jeff VanderMeer’s Steampunk II: Steampunk Reloaded. Another story is forthcoming in The Apex Book of World SF, Vol. II, ed. by Lavie Tidhar, later this year. Fabio blogs here and tweets here.

(Partial) verbatim transcription

M.N.: Not really. It was . . . I didn’t know it any other way . . . life you know. It was normal. Maybe I didn’t so much realize that other children were not doing the same.

L.S.: All your friends were at the school?

M.N.: Yes well friends yes. So were my brothers. Friends is different I think in such a place. But maybe not [laughs]. I don’t know you tell me. Friends get into fights, I think, maybe friends . . . your relationship with some people that you call friends can become very competitive too. So yes some of my classmates were my friends but they were also competition.

L.S.: Has that ever changed throughout your life?

M.N.: [pause] Yes. Well it changes . . . you meet people from different areas in the job not direct competition and sometimes, yes you make friends, but then you travel a lot and when I auditioned when I came first here and was offered the principal contract it’s . . . well anyway the job is very finite and very important to me.

L.S.: And you ended your career. Could you have continued?

M.N.: Physically sure but how long? It was smart move to take a while to wind down I’m ending it slowly but just that the public part, the performance you know they are first to go, so they are most noticeably gone, for you for example.

L.S.: You took a year long break quite early on in your career. Was it . . . it was because of health issues. Is that because you’ve decided to retire before any physical problems arise?

M.N.: [laughs] aaah . . . back then it was hard mmm so maybe I wanted to stop before something like it happens again. You know it is not common knowledge. It seems to be that people think I am using metaphors. I was never asked to explain it more. I have said this many times but people think I am using images. But I am not a word person at all. So most of the time well I have a hard time to put things into words anyway and in English anyway so I don’t use any extra words that don’t need to be there: “One coffee to go please!“ [laughs] So back then. You know I was meant for this I was born for this – how you basically try and try to struggle with gravity and sometimes with all that work it may look or even feel like you’re coming a little close to flying. That was. I was. [laughs] See so now I have told you it’s not metaphor! At that time at the time of my break the place where my wings used to be gave me a lot of pain. It became unbearable often. An intense mix of physical pain and emotional longing. Maybe I was missing something. But I never knew it, because I was just a tiny baby, but some part of me, maybe, knew it

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This week, we’re featuring a new collaboration between photographer Naama Sarid, whose work we’ve featured in the past. Naama has been kind enough to share her work with some of our other contributors, and they have been writing and creating based on her wonderful photography. This piece is inspired by Exposure № 068: Butterfly. See Naama Sarid’s other Snake-Oil Cure contrubutions here.

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Frauke Uhlenbruch, aka the Small Fish, lives (and works) in England (among others). Her current research interests include the writings of Dr Seamus Hurley, the resurrection of the dead, utopian social description, superhero comics, and remarkable modes of divine-human communication. Things that make her toenails curl up include people bumping into her backpack on a crowded subway train. Great music, road trips, and dancing on tiptoe on the other hand, warm her heart. Sometimes she gets bored with the contemporary world. Her other contributions to Snake-Oil Cure can be found here.

Lines

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t was a bright, bitter morning in January and the streets of Montmartre seemed to be singing with cold. Edgar Degas looked out from a first floor window as Jenney Musson approached the door to his building. Some boys from the neighbourhood had trapped an injured tabby cat and were cheerfully tormenting it, dragging it along the cobbles by its tail. It was the noise from the cat that had drawn him to the window. He watched as Jenney chased the boys away, scattering them to the four winds. He heard the insults they hurled at her as they fled, and smiled a little.

They called her ugly. And they were right, she was – there in the weak yellow sunlight – profoundly so. At 14, Jenney Musson was pipe cleaner thin with greasy hair, wide set eyes and an insolent, mean looking mouth that made her look like she was lying at all times, even when telling the god’s honest truth. She had a week’s worth of grime under her fingernails and a face so highly polished it could have been inlaid with mother-of-pearl. ‘A girl made of crumpled paper’, he hastily noted this down in his sketchbook.

This was the first time he’d asked Jenney to pose for him, but he knew the family well and had drawn both her sisters. The mother, Madame Musson, like all the mothers of dancing girls, was a laundress with hands as rough as wet rope. Charlotte, the middle sister, was fuller in every respect, but had an irritating habit of thieving small change from around the house. Marie, the oldest, was dead already, washed up on the banks of the river with barely a scratch or a mark on her, save for a ring on her finger and a curious grin on her face, so they said. Paris was a messy place, where messy things happened.

Jenney undressed in the centre of the room with the ease of someone who cared little for her own body, and knew nothing of its worth. She recognized that this man, who was old and bad-tempered enough to be her father, posed no real threat and besides, they needed money. For years Edgar had haunted the Paris Opera, a ghost in its halls, doggedly sketching the ballerinas and their wealthy abonnes, the men who fawned over and flirted with them. To him these girls were purely creatures of movement. He was interested in muscle and sinew, not flesh. In the stretch and flex. In line, not bulk.

Edgar began to draw. The nape of her neck. A shoulder blade. Her jutting collarbone. Jenney could hear only the noise of charcoal scratching across paper and the faint tick-tocking of the grandfather clock in the hallway outside – she was in for a long morning. In the stillness her gaze came to rest on a canvas leaning against the wall in the corner of the room. In it an acrobat hung, suspended from the rafters of a grand auditorium by her teeth, as a large unseen crowd gawped on, agog.

‘Who’s that woman?’ she asked, nodding towards the picture.
‘That is Miss La La, she’s a performer at the Cirque Fernando, in Montmartre.’
‘Do you think it hurts her to do that?’
‘I imagine it’s excruciating, yes. It’s really a wonder she has any teeth left. But you should see the next part of her act. She fires a canon suspended on chains. She holds it in her mouth whilst she dangles from the trapeze. It’s quite breathtaking.’

It looked warm in the painting, inviting and effervescent, like staring up at the world through a beer glass or an amber necklace. She could almost hear the rustle of skirts and feel the shoulders of the other audience members butting against her own. Even a fool could see that the acrobat, Miss La La, must be in tremendous pain, hanging there over the open mouths of the crowd, but in the picture she looked serene, like a moth fluttering effortlessly around a flame. There was no hint of what lay beneath; a safety net; or a pool filled with circling sharks? It was utterly impossible to say.

‘What’s it about, that painting?’
Edgar paused for a second, taken aback. Her impertinence amused him. ‘What do you think it’s about?’
‘I think she’s a lot like me’ she said.
‘Meaning?’ He tried his best to stifle a smirk.
‘The girls you draw are like spiders, spinning pretty webs.’

Edgar felt his origami heart unfurl, just a little.

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This week, we’re featuring a new collaboration between photographer Naama Sarid, whose work we’ve featured in the past. Naama has been kind enough to share her work with some of our other contributors, and they have been writing and creating based on her wonderful photography. This piece is inspired by Exposure № 068: Butterfly. See Naama Sarid’s other Snake-Oil Cure contrubutions here.

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Ursula Glitch is the awkward, geeky, bony brainchild of Freya Hardy, a freelance writer and book editor from Eastbourne, a small town on the South Coast of England, where she lives with her husband, Gaz, and her two-year-old twin daughters. She has contributed to Sleaze Nation, Bolz, Uplift, Ladyfriend Zine, Lionheart and Flamingo Magazine amongst others. Her other contributions to Snake-Oil Cure can be found here.

Exposure № 068: Butterfly

This week, we’re featuring a new collaboration between photographer Naama Sarid, whose work we’ve featured in the past. Naama has been kind enough to share her work with some of our other contributors, and they have been writing and creating based on her wonderful photography.

Stay tuned this week for multiple daily posts. Each day, we’ll post a photo in the morning, and then several pieces inspired by it later in the day.

* * * * *

Naama Sarid-Maleta’ is an architect. She began an intense career as a documentary and conceptual photographer in Madrid (2008) and has contributed to magazines and publications in Europe and Israel. She has participated in numerous exhibitions in Ukraine, Spain and Israel. Her sustained challenge as an artist is the desire to “build dreams” in visual codes. She had developed a scheme of work based on the interaction of enforcement procedures and the organizations of architecture and a conceptual result more expressionistic and plastic in its nature. Her husband is also an architect and photographer from Cuba, and they work as a team with multidisciplinary projections. Her other contributions to Snake-Oil Cure can be found here.

Exposure № 059: El amor a la patria

Photographer Naama Sarid continues to share her wonderful images with us, and tells us a little about “El amor a la patria”:

The title of this photo is taken from a national Cuban song named Abdala, by Jose Marti, which talks about one’s love for his nation. This photo shows the other side of this love, sacrificing yourself for your ideals.

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Naama Sarid-Maleta’ is an architect. She began an intense career as a documentary and conceptual photographer in Madrid (2008) and has contributed to magazines and publications in Europe and Israel. She has participated in numerous exhibitions in Ukraine, Spain and Israel. Her sustained challenge as an artist is the desire to “build dreams” in visual codes. She had developed a scheme of work based on the interaction of enforcement procedures and the organizations of architecture and a conceptual result more expressionistic and plastic in its nature. Her husband is also an architect and photographer from Cuba, and they work as a team with multidisciplinary projections.

Her other contributions to Snake-Oil Cure can be found here.

Exposure № 052: Pequeña estatua de terror

Photographer Naama Sarid tells us: “This photo is an homage to African tattoos and body paintings. The model – Viviana Bovino – is a great actor from Italy who founded the Residui Teatro, where the photo was taken.”

Camera: Pentax. Film: B&W 400asa + texture.

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Naama Sarid is an architect. She began an intense career as a documentary and conceptual photographer in Madrid (2008). Had contributed to numerous magazines and publications in Europe and Israel. She has participated in numerous exhibitions in Ukraine, Spain and Israel. Her sustained challenge as an artist is the desire to “build dreams” in visual codes. Her publications at Dr. Hurley’s Snake-Oil Cure can be found here.

Exposure № 051: Encima de la soledad flota la luna

Photographer Naama Sarid tells us that this photo was made in Oropesa castle, Toledo, Spain:

I went there with my husband to celebrate my birthday. This photo looks a little bit gothic for a birthday photo, because I always feel ambivalent about this day – I like it but am also afraid of it.

Medium: digital camera + texture.

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Naama Sarid is an architect. She began an intense career as a documentary and conceptual photographer in Madrid (2008), and has contributed to numerous magazines and publications in Europe and Israel. She has participated in numerous exhibitions in Ukraine, Spain and Israel. Her sustained challenge as an artist is the desire to “build dreams” in visual codes. Her publications at Dr. Hurley’s Snake-Oil Cure can be found here.